


Pursuit

by CaptainTarthister, catherineflowers



Series: Office Hunt [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Play, Cunnilingus, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Nipple Play, Oral Sex, Paddling, Rimming, Shameless Smut, Smut, Stalking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-10
Updated: 2018-06-10
Packaged: 2019-05-20 13:36:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14895575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainTarthister/pseuds/CaptainTarthister, https://archiveofourown.org/users/catherineflowers/pseuds/catherineflowers
Summary: Casterly Global wishes to expand to Essos and Jaime Lannister quarterbacks the deal. But in between meetings, analyses and stats that may raise red flags, he needs to know the agenda of employee Brienne Tarth. Dark or naughty, figuring her out involves a lot more than spreadsheets and leads to a lot of incentives.





	Pursuit

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SeleneU](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeleneU/gifts).



> All scenes in this story depicting BDSM are fictional and from our filthy imaginations! :-) 
> 
> But they should not be perceived as a guide or in any way accurate. Safety and caution must always be exercised.

 

Jaime

She’s there again. He’s having breakfast at his favourite coffee shop, going over paperwork while he eats his bagel and he sees her. She’s pretending to look at the postcard rack, pretending she’s a tourist.  
  
She’s hard to miss. 6’3” and very very blonde – but still she thinks sunglasses and a trenchcoat will hide her.  
  
She’s not hidden. Just as she wasn’t last night in the bar, or in the club, or outside his house when he went to put the garbage out. The garbage that had been opened and rummaged through when he went back out this morning.  
  
He stares at her. She pretends she hasn’t noticed. Fumbles with the postcards a little more. Face a little red, breath a little quicker.  
  
He wraps his bagel in a napkin and heads for the office. Squeezing past her at the counter.

 

Brienne  
  
Scarlet sweeps from her forehead and descends to her chest, where breathing is suddenly shallow. Her pale eyelashes flutter rapidly as the warm citrus scent of his cologne envelopes her in that brief, almost contact of their bodies as he brushes past. It is a fight to keep her eyes on the display of postcards.

It is only a moment, but his scent lingers. She gives the cards another hard look as she hears the familiar squeak of the glass door opening at he lets himself out. One, two, three, she counts before turning to look. He’s crossing the street to let himself in his ridiculous sports car, but machine and man suit each other. A living, breathing, citrus-smelling ad.

She goes to the counter and catches the eye of one of the servers. “That guy,” she says, thumb jerking over her shoulder to point at the window. “Do you see him? The Jag? What kind of bagel did he get?”

 

Jaime   
  
His first meeting is upstairs, being lectured on the family legacy in his father’s penthouse office. This lecture is at least a weekly thing – he’s learned how to tune most of it out and nod in all the right places, but every week he leaves feeling shit about himself.  
  
He gets back to his own office in a foul mood – apparently he’s stupid and rash and foolish and cares too much about what other people think of him. Apparently he needs to start being the businessman he was always meant to be. He doesn’t disagree, but he’s thirty-five years old. Maybe he already is the businessman he was meant to be.   
  
He kicks the door shut and slings his briefcase under the desk. He opens a window too - it smells weird in here, kind of sweet and musky.  
  
There’s a wet spot on his desk too. He sticks his fingers in it to find it’s thick and tacky and clings to his skin. Probably the cleaners getting sloppy with their products. He wipes his fingers on his suit and heads into the main office. Despite being stupid and rash, he can apparently be trusted to gather the figures for their upcoming deal. To chair a major meeting to discuss its feasibility tomorrow.

 

Brienne  
  
She’s one of the mid-level employees in Casterly Global, important enough to get things done but still dispensable. One of the anonymous managers slaving over monthly quotas and stuck at work until ten in the evening ensuring the projections are correct.

Her eyes glaze over from the glare of the computer screen. The colourful charts and graphs almost sting. She turns away and reaches for her coffee mug only to find it nearly empty. The walk to the machine is at least some modicum of exercise.

At the pantry, she helps herself to a latte (Casterly Global may be the evil Galactic Empire but it knows the importance of good coffee) and is giving it a stir when she sees him.

He stands in the aisle between the cubicles, shirt sleeves pushed up to the elbows yet impeccable. What imperfections Jaime Lannister might have contribute to the sheer magnificence of him. The blond hair, thick and styled in that just-out-of-bed rumple that still looked professional. His soft, golden tan, even in them middle of fall. Men and women his age, buttoned up in their suits but looking ill, surround him. Each try to impress him because he has this way of focusing his deep, emerald eyes on a person that appears compelling.

He’s good at that. Making someone feel special. Like you are the only one that matters to him in this entire world.

She’s sipping her coffee, watching the exchange among the executives, when he suddenly turns his head and sees her.

Seems to see only her.

She looks away and hides her blush by taking another sip.

  
  
Jaime  
  
She’s looking at him again. Pink cheeks and blue eyes.  
  
She works in his brother’s team, he thinks. Quite low down. He’s not exactly sure what it is she does - he’s never had occasion to ask.   
  
He tries to ignore her, but she’s definitely not ignoring him. She watches his every move it seems, while pretending to drink a cup of that cheap disgusting coffee his father thinks is good enough for their employees. Tywin saves the good stuff for his own floor.  
  
Someone’s going to notice her. He knows how these things work in an office – talk will start. If it reaches his brother’s ears or - gods forbid - his sister’s ….  
  
He stares at her quite pointedly and she looks away. Scurries back to her desk.  
  
He takes the printouts from his colleagues and heads back to his office. Closes the blinds so she can’t watch him.   
  
He puts the papers on his desk, quite forgetting the wet spot. Curses as they soak it up.

 

Brienne

She makes sure the black hoodie completely covers her blond hair. The street is dark, but the streetlights burn the eyes, wide swaths of white light on the concrete. She’s hunched deeply, her gloved hands careful in lifting the lids of the dumpsters. The rubbish is in black plastic bags and sealed tightly shut, but she’s nimble at working through the knots. Her eyes dart from side to side. The neighbourhood is asleep, but you never know who might be watching.

In the bags - darkened banana skins and apple cores, bright orange peels and a package of organic strawberries from the weekend fair. In another bag, plastic packages of potato chips and gourmet pork rinds—a pale blond eyebrow nearly leaps to her hairline at that. _He segregates._ It should mean nothing, but it shows a lot about the kind of person he is. Or at least, the help he gets, she thinks with a smirk. But he should go easy on the junk food. It’s not fair that someone who eats trash looks as good as he does. Which probably explains the fruit. She’s pleased by that.

She ties the bag closed and moves on to the other. Here, the stuff is personal. A cannister of shaving cream. She uncovers it and sniffs. It’s a nice smell. Clean and crisp. Next is his deodorant. Her eyes widen a little upon recognizing the bottle’s blue and black colours. She _knows_ he gets everything specifically tailored to his tastes. None of his suits are store-bought, for example. The man has a cobbler, for crying out loud. Crocodile leather is his preference, size thirteen.

That’s why it’s a surprise his deodorant brand is easily available in the neighbourhood supermarket. Cool Power is the name of the scent. How perfect because Jaime Lannister was born with cool power. Some men radiate with it. Others you just _know_. He belongs in the latter category.

Next, she finds a bottle of his cologne. Her eyes are brilliant sapphire searchlights. Even before she removes the cap, she smells it. _Gods._ There’s the hint of musk that she _knows_ is mixed to his unique body chemistry. Then the familiar, crisp notes of citrus. It’s the smell of a sultry summer and makes her weak in the knees. She slips the bottle in her jacket pocket and continues digging in the trash.

There’s a tube of anti-wrinkle gel, a gem of a discovery but she’s not surprised. It’s nice to know that he puts in a little work to keep looking like half a god. She’s about to stick her hand in again when she spots what’s at the bottom.

_One, two, three, four. . ._ she fishes out a penlight from her other jacket pocket. _Five, six,_ seven. . .hells! The collectors come three times a week. Tuesday, Thursday, Saturday. Today is Thursday. Seven condoms? _How often does he have sex?_ Her legs weaken imagining. Her eyes slowly veer to the direction of his house, toward the dark upstairs window of his bedroom. _Feeling._ Before she puts away the penlight, she catches the black carton of the condoms. _Valyrian Magnum Ecstasy._

In the dark, her cheeks flare to a red so vivid and bright. The hoodie feels hot, sticky. She looks back at the window, hand in pocket. Her fingers curl around the key.

She shifts her gaze to the row of windows on the first floor. His study is always a good place to start.

 

Jaime  
  
Jaime works late – this meeting is shaping up to be a big one and he needs to look prepared in case his father decides to drop in. He thinks he may be here all night.  
  
He’s not alone – across the office he sees his brother Tyrion’s light is on too. He wonders if he had the same lecture Jaime had that morning. Only Tyrion isn’t reckless, or stupid. He has a far better grasp of the business than Jaime does – he’s made their father millions. Tyrion already is the man Tywin wanted Jaime to be, but Tywin can’t see it.  
  
Jaime heads across the office to drop in on his brother – only when he gets closer he sees that it isn’t Tyrion at his desk at all, it’s his rather attractive brunette secretary (Sharon? Shantelle? Shae? – he can’t recall her name) and that his brother has disappeared somewhere up inside her pencil skirt.  
  
He leaves them to it.  
  
As he crosses the office, he passes her desk. Hers. The giant blonde. It’s neat. Plain. Nondescript. A pot of pens and her computer, nothing more.  
  
But there, in her trashcan is a bagel. With a bite out of it, but only one. He sees why. It’s his bagel – his morning special, what he calls his wake-up bagel. Pastrami, mustard, jalapenos and hot sauce.  
  
He smirks a little smirk of satisfaction.

Brienne  
  


The next morning, she gets dressed in front of her mirror. Her eyes briefly fall to the bottle of cologne as she slips on the shirt. The linen tickles her nipples, like the barest rasp of morning stubble. She stares at herself then. The shirt is soft and pleasantly warm, as if just removed from _his_ body. Her face is pink as she smiles. It’s a little tight around the shoulders and when her arms slide through the sleeves, they’re a little too short. In the glass, she lifts the collar to her nose.

Hmm. There’s the faint note of sweat but makes her nuzzle her nose against the fabric, purring. Her nose picks up that familiar note of citrus and the smile that spreads across her face threatens to split it in half.

 

Jaime

He wakes up at his desk, a page of figures stuck to his cheek with drool.   
  
Looks at his Breitling – it’s ten minutes until the meeting. Fuck. He hasn’t even done half the preparation he was planning. Looks like he’s winging it again.  
  
Stupid. Reckless. Foolish. His father isn’t wrong.

He splashes his face in his bathroom and rubs the sleep from his eyes. Puts a little of his eyebag cream on. Then a little anti-aging serum. Does his toner and moisturiser. Smears some hair putty through his hair. Combs it to neaten it, then tousles it to let a couple of strands fall loose. Sprays it with a little fixer.   
  
Then he changes into his spare suit, a sharp-cut navy blue one with a short jacket that makes his green eyes sparkle. In his experience, bluffing his way through a meeting always starts with looking  better than everyone else there.  
 

He gathers the paperwork, heads for the door when he looks back at his desk. Spies other papers on it. It won’t hurt to make himself look like he’s done more. So, he grabs a small pile, tucking it in the folder and leaves for the conference room.  
Tyrion and his entire team are there, it seems. Including the big blonde. She has a big folder too – maybe she’s presenting.  
  
He sits at the opposite end of the table to her, pointedly not looking at her. Nods to his brother. Nods to Shae.  
  
Someone else comes in, that weasel-faced Baelish guy from Cersei’s department. There are no chairs left, but the big blonde gets up immediately and offers him her seat. Of course, he takes it. The blonde gets a chair from the corridor and everyone else squeezes up for her. She sits, right opposite Jaime.  
  
Of course she does.

 

Brienne

Jaime sits right across from her. It’s difficult to not stare. His tight expression indicates tension, irritation. Her hand itches to touch him, just on the cheek, and lightly. Perhaps it could melt away some of his displeasure. She swears she can _smell_ his frustration. She crosses her legs in fear that his nose will catch her body’s helpless response.

Blue is a good colour on him, she thinks. It emphasizes the rich, gold colour of his thick hair and brings out the emeralds of his eyes. The colour is a risky sartorial choice, but he doesn’t play it safe. There’s hardly an area in his life where he sticks within the lines. It’s hard not to admire him for that. She squirms in her seat, blushing at the familiar ache blooming between her legs. Alright. So, she doesn’t just admire him.

Her boss, Jaime’s younger brother Tyrion, is leading the meeting. Jaime takes risks and Tyrion has that streak too. Sometimes he’s considered the truer visionary between them. But Casterly Global’s partnership with Braavos borders on reckless. The market in the latter promises billions but no company on their side of the world has cracked Braavos, or anywhere else in Essos. Not even the smallest fissure.

“Remember what Reyne Industries tried to do?” Tyrion is addressing the room. “It looked like a sure shot but the company ended up going under. We can hire all the translators we want, woo the leaders with whatever pleasure possible but it’s not a guarantee. That country is a sleeping dragon.”

His mismatched eyes, emerald and dark, are distracting. His features are pinched. The glaring contrast between the brothers doesn’t end there—Tyrion Lannister is a dwarf. His mind is a well-hewn blade. People whispered about Tywin Lannister’s greatest shame but Tyrion himself silenced them eventually with his genius.

Brienne watches Jaime. He’s impatient. He salivates over the deal. But he respects his brother. He listens to him when the rest of the family don’t. 

“Are you saying we step aside and let another company take a chance? Stark Acquisitions, perhaps?” Jaime says. Everyone in the room murmurs in disapproval. Stark Acquisitions is smaller than Casterly Global but is projected to be their direct rival in a few years.

Tyrion hesitates. Then, “Yes.” As the volume of the murmurs rise, he adds, “There’s too much at risk. This can break us.”

“We’ve put over a hundred man hours on this deal. We can’t just walk away,” Jaime insists.

“Better we lose that rather than the company.”

“We keep the deal and we win big. Casterly Global will own that side of the world.”

“Either that or we lose everything. Jaime, it’s too much of a gamble.” As soon as Tyrion makes this statement, disapproving looks rain on him. He suddenly sighs, pinches the bridge of his flat nose. “I knew this would happen. This is why I had this done. Ladies, gentlemen, I turn over the floor to our Eastern Liaisons Officer, Brienne Tarth.”

The protests die a little, replaced with audible inquiries like, “Who?” “Who’s that?” And then, “Oh. _Right._ She’s tall.” It’s impossible to fight off the pink burning bright on her cheeks, the blotch that spreads across her neck. Her hands are unsteady as she organizes her papers, shuffles them needlessly. Her knees quake and she’s grateful for switching her usual stilettos for kitten heels.

She raises her eyes and Tyrion nods at her encouragingly. She opens the folder and stares at the report she’s written. It’s taken her two weeks to gather all the information. The data she knows backward and forward. The projections and analysis are clear in her head.

Gods, she hopes she doesn’t fuck this up. Her eyes flit from Tyrion’s face to Jaime’s.

His expression gives her a pause. His eyes are big, as if shocked and scared of her. Her eyebrows almost meet across her forehead as she gives him a little glare, feeling defensive. She gets being an anonymous cog in the company. But she wishes people would get over how she looks. Jaime stares at her as if none of her makes sense.

Well. She knows exactly how to make him pay for that.

She strolls to the front of the conference room, clutching her folder and tablet against her chest. She gives the contents of the folder another glance. The information is etched in her mind, her heart. Her eyes find Jaime again. He no longer has that ridiculous expression. Now it’s one of challenge, his lips quirked to one side, hinting at a smug grin he can’t wait to bust out.

She steadies her hold on the tablet, swipes a couple of commands to connect it to the projector and begins her report.

 

Jaime

Her report is predictably dull. It’s as empty and dry as her desk, as unimaginative. Of course she wouldn’t think this deal was a good idea, and of course she would have all the stats to back all of her plodding, mulish ideas up. No wonder Tyrion asked her to present.

What she didn’t understand was that deals like this – they were about more than stats. They were about instincts, about knowing in your bones what would work and what wouldn’t. It’s not that he disagrees with her, not in principle – but he thinks they should just damn well do it anyway. Because this is how big companies turn into world beaters, and that’s what Casterly Global are. World beaters.

Not that Jaime feels like this applies to him. He’s always struggled to motivate himself to get out there and beat the world himself on his father’s behalf. It’s never really felt like _him_.

He opens his mouth to interject a pithy observation on one of Miss Tarth’s pie charts, and then closes it abruptly. He’s just noticed her shirt.

It’s a little small for her – he noticed that as soon as he saw her, but it must be hard to get clothes when you’re a great beast of a woman. Then he noticed the thread count and thought it was a little expensive for someone on her salary. He had one just like it – designer Myrish linen, House of the Undying. Just like hers in fact.  
  
Even down to the button on the cuff coming loose. He’d meant to send it for repair.

She’s wearing his shirt.

His shirt. It should be hanging in his closet, in his house. He’d seen it there just yesterday in fact, when he was dressing for work.  
  
A cold sweat drips down his back. She’s been in his house?  
  
She’s been in his house. And she wants him to know. Why else would she be wearing his shirt here, today, so blatantly in front of him?

His eyes sweep down the front of it, no longer listening to her presentation, her projections and figures and statistics no more than a background drone. _She’s not wearing anything underneath_. The outline of her nipples is clearly visible through the fabric as she leans to point out something on her presentation.  
  
Absurdly, he feels his cock stir in his suit pants. She’s wearing his shirt over naked skin, rubbing her nipples all over it as she moves and stretches and leans ….  
  
He’s suddenly aware that everyone is looking at him. Waiting for him to say something.   
  
She has a slight smile on her face. A cocky one.  
  
He clears his throat. “Erm … yes?” he tries. Everyone just looks confused. “What I mean is … all that … it’s all very well and good, but it doesn’t account for the fact that I erm … I want … I want …”

 

Brienne  
  
“I can understand, Mr. Lannister. The Braavos deal is simply irresistible,” she licks her lips and his eyes rest there for a moment before taking in her entire face again. “It can make or break Casterly Global. But we must learn from other companies who tried to break through Essos. We’re doing exactly as they did. Which means a conclusion that you and everyone else in the room know only too well.”

“What you’ve given us are warnings against the risk, Miss. . .Tarth, is it?” He pretends to squint at her and she tries not to scowl.  “Right. Miss Tarth. We know the risks. And that’s part of what makes this partnership _irresistible_ ,” he drawled, drawing out the last word like taffy. The pink tip of his tongue swipes quickly across his lip. “This is Casterly Global. We always win.”

Brienne takes a quiet little breath and plays her last card.

“Mr. Lannister,” she begins politely, looking  him in the eye and hoping the effect makes him feel they are all alone in the room. “Casterly Global was not built in a day. Your grandfather started it, brick-by-brick, so to speak, with his own hands. It was a minor player when your father took over. Like your grandfather, he built it up slowly, but with his own touch. But he did not do it so recklessly. He studied it, figured out how to make things work little by little.”

Jaime smirks. “Are you saying you wish for me to work as my father does, Miss Tarth?”

She smiles back, but it is a touch feral. _Now is the time._ She glances at the folder then back at him. Gods, she’s been waiting for this moment. She hopes she doesn’t sound too giddy. Her eyes gleam. Her fingers shake a little as she pretends to get something from the folder, giving her audience a peek at the unique crimson and gold pattern of a card secreted there. She stares at Jaime pointedly.

“The lion’s roar should not drown out the voice of wisdom, even if it comes from sheep.”

 

Jaime

He opens his mouth. Closes it again.  
  
Gods – she looks positively _savage_. Standing at the head of the conference table, blue eyes locked on his, perky little tits in his shirt, legs apart like she’s about to sit astride him. She looks like she’s going to pounce on him, devour him whole for breakfast.  
  
There’s no misunderstanding here – she’s been in his house. He sees what she glanced at in her notes a moment ago. It’s a handcrafted greetings card, made by his mother. She makes them every time they put a deal together, one for him, one for his brother and one for his sister, all in Lannister red and gold. It had been sitting on the shelf in his study last time he saw it.  
  
She writes little notes in them, meant to inspire her children, meant to encourage. Meant to give them a different perspective from Tywin’s constant disappointed beration.  
  
In Jaime’s, she wrote,   
  
_The Lion’s roar should not drown out the voice of wisdom, even if it comes from sheep.  
  
_ He should call Miss Tarth out on it. He should stand up and demand to see the contents of her folder. He should have her fired, escorted out of the building by security. He should call the police and have her arrested for breaking and entering.  
  
Instead, he has a full, throbbing, aching erection. He has to shift his paperwork to hide it.  
  
“That’s very – interesting, Miss Tarth. I’m very uhm … interested. Could you download your presentation for me? Possibly? Or email it to me – that would be fine too.”  
  
“I’ll put it on your desk,” she tells him. A wolfish grin on her face.  
  
Tyrion is looking at him as if he’s gone mad.  
  
He makes his excuses and practically runs for his office. Dashes into the bathroom again. Sinks to his knees in front of the toilet and stuffs his hands into his pants to release his cock. It’s iron hard and dripping precum.  
  
He strokes himself to a wild fantasy of the strangely alluring Miss Tarth – her nipples, his shirt. At home he’s taken to jerking off into condoms – almost everything he has needs professional cleaning and a misjudged spurt ends up being very expensive. But sadly he doesn’t have any Valyrian Magnum Ecstasy to hand so he has to make do with a toilet paper clean up. 

  
Brienne

As discussed, she heads to his office but it’s empty. The space is austere with its dark grey carpet and sleek furniture painted or either varnished in similar grim shades. But the walls are smoky crimson, like dirty blood. She finds it a little morbid but is fascinated by the artwork on them. They are abstracts, seemingly random strokes and splats of black, grey, silver, on white.

There is nothing here of the man she knows. He seems a caged lion here. She wouldn’t be surprised to find Tywin had installed chains or a whip to keep him tame. There is no stopping the image of Jaime Lannister bound by leather handcuffs around the wrists from popping in her head, so she smiles, blushes. She is about to put her files on his desk, leave him a handwritten note when she hears it.

At first, she can’t make out what it was. It comes from the direction of a door, which she determines is his personal bathroom. There it is. A throaty sound, deep, drawn-out. Easily mistaken for pain but, as she listens some more, it is clearly not. _Jaime is not in pain at all._

Her eyes never leave the door, the flush on her face deepening as his groans get huskier, sexier. Her hips bump on the edge of the desk and her hands are grabbing at the edge of her skirt before she realizes what she’s doing. Against the torturous tease of the linen, her nipples, tight all day, strain even more, threatening to stab through the cloth. Her eyes close briefly as her skirt rolls up over her hips. She sits on the desk, props one foot on it, the other on his expensive Italian chair.

She is all business on the outside and hot as sin under her suit. Black stockings on endless legs. French red mesh panties for her cunt. Her hand finds her warm and wet and when she spreads her legs, she smells the musk of her arousal. Her eyes bore hard on the door as she sweeps aside the front of her panties and plays with her clit.

A cry almost escapes her. It was only a little touch! Barely a graze of her finger but gods, her clit is a plump, _hard_ pillar under the soaked blond curls. It’s so fucking sensitive because she is so turned on. Jaime’s groans continue, faster now, harsher. She imagines his hand around his beautiful cock. He has to have a gorgeous one, and monster-sized because of his condoms. That cock rutting into her deeply and without mercy would break her hips and _she would be so fucking fine with that_. She would let that cock fuck her however it wanted as long as Jaime came with it.

The fingers stroke furious circles on her clit before one delves past the folds. She starts fucking herself. Gods. It’s too good. Too soon. She should come because he’s sure to catch her but she wants this to last too. She remembers his emerald eyes. She unbuttons her shirt partway down to pinch a swollen nipple.

Her entire body quakes. “Jaime,” she whispers, thighs clenching around her hand.

From behind the bathroom door, he cries out.

  
Jaime  
  
He washes his hands and rearranges his hair – gives himself another quick slather of moisturiser to take the heat out of his skin. That had been absolutely mindblowing – his fantasies of the bizarre but intriguing Miss Tarth had felt so real. As he came, he had almost heard her call his name.  
  
He leaves his bathroom to find his father waiting for him. Sitting at his desk with a furious expression on his face.  
  
“I hear that was a total waste of time,” he says.  
  
“What?”  
  
“The meeting. You were supposed to thrash out some sort of action plan.”  
  
“Well, Tyrion’s team brought some new facts to the table.”  
  
“What facts? You’ve been up to your neck in facts about this for the past six weeks, what could Tyrion’s team possibly have told you that you didn’t already know?”  
  
Jaime can’t answer that.  
  
“Unless you were inadequately prepared? _Again?_ ”  
  
“I was here all night preparing. Ask Tyrion. But – that woman, the tall one – Tarth. She had a very interesting report that I wanted to uhm – review before we came to any conclusions.”  
  
“And do you have a copy of this report? Seeing as how it’s so _pivotal_ , I’d like to read it myself.”  
  
Jaime’s eyes scan his desk – he sees a manila folder on top that wasn’t there before. A neat handwritten post-it. “It’s here,” he says, and picks it up. Holds it out to his father.  
  
As his father’s hand closes over the other edge, Jaime notices there is something poking out of the side. Something red. Something definitely not paper. Something that looks distinctly like lace.  
  
He snatches it back. His father’s eyes go wide with fury.  
  
“Need to make a copy,” he blurts, and dashes out of the door before Tywin has a chance to speak.  
  
He ducks into the copy room, his face burning. Opens the folder. Just as he suspected, it’s a pair of panties. Bright red, lacy. Used, too – very very used. The crotch is soaked – the scent hits his nose in a heady, musky wave and makes him salivate. Despite the fact he’s just finished an epic jerk-off session not five minutes ago, his cock twitches to attention immediately.  
  
The door opens and he’s forced to stuff the panties in his jacket pocket. It’s Shae, giggling with another secretary. They both stop giggling as soon as they see him. He offers them a winning smile, slightly hunching over so his shirt hides his erection.  
  
“Either of you know how to work the copier?”

  
Brienne  
  
He will not be home for another hour. The office is abuzz with the sudden closed-door meeting involving Tywin and Jaime. She wonders if the elder Lannister is chewing him out for that Braavos deal. Or something else. She laughs under her breath as she picks up a pretty silver photo frame on a leather end table.

He’s always been beautiful, she discovers, eyes softening at the photo of the little blond boy proudly showing off the fresh trout he’s caught. Beautiful and happy. Of the former she’s sure about, the latter, not really. He hardly smiles. When he does, it doesn’t really reach his eyes.

She walks around, her earlier recons having familiarised her with the rooms in the lower floors, where to turn, what she will find and where. She has committed the layout to memory. Her tote is full by the time she reaches his bedroom, but she can’t resist scooping up the crystal lion figurine from his nightstand.

She sits on the bed and examines the collection in her bag. Will he notice right away that all these things have gone? Or will it take him time? Either would suit her. It’s fun to fuck with his head.

His bedroom has the direct opposite mood to his office. The latter is forbidding and the red walls disorienting. Here, the walls are soft cream and the drapes lightweight and a soft, ice-blue with barely-there silver patterns on the cloth. The furniture is an eclectic mix of antiques and contemporary pieces, resulting in a kind of Old World weariness touched with elegance. This is the Jaime Lannister she knows.

With a sigh, she fully stretches out on his bed. Nice. It smells softly of his citrus scent, bath soap, and the faint trace of sweat and fucking. She turns and rubs her face on his pillow, imagining his pretty face smooshed on the crisp white pillow bordered in rich toffee. The cotton sateen feels like the softest kisses bestowed on her cheek. She hugs the pillow, wondering how hard Jaime’s body would feel. The guy works out five times a week and is unbelievably _cut_.

Being in his bed, surrounded by his scent, her body sinking on the indentation on the mattress where his body usually lies, is giving her what could only be accurately described as a lady boner. Her breasts ache and her nipples are painfully tight again, needing the desperate clutch of a warm mouth. Her cunt aches, weeping at the nagging emptiness. Gods. She should get out. This is needless torture.

She sits up and her eyes fall on the half-open drawer of the other nightstand. She reaches over to close it but decides instead to pull. A peek and she has to _wonder_ if on some level he knows. He was staring at her strangely during the meeting, specifically the shirt. And now she finds _this_. 

_Well._ This is most unexpected. Jaime and _this_ magnificent little thing.

She glances at her watch. There’s time.

Brienne pulls shrugs off her jacket, her eyes burning with excitement. She kicks off her shoes and unbuckles her belt. 

  
Jaime  
  
It’s almost midnight by the time he gets home. He’s mentally exhausted from yet another session of being chewed out by his father – though of course Tyrion got it worse. He’s physically exhausted too – he couldn’t even be bothered with the gym tonight. He just wants to come home and plough his way through that sharebox of doughnuts he’s got waiting.  
  
As soon as he opens his front door, he knows something is different. His house smells different. The doormat’s askew. His alarm is tuned off too.   
  
How does she know the code? In retrospect, it was probably it was stupid to use his birthday.  
  
She’s good at this. Things are different, but not enough to make him certain. Not enough that he could call the police, say he’s had a break-in.   
  
He thinks a picture frame is missing, but he’s not sure which one. A magazine too maybe, from the coffee table? His bookshelf has some gaps now too, though maybe he just lent the books to Cersei?  
  
In the kitchen, there’s a plate on the counter. Crumbs and sandwich crusts – the bread has lipstick on it, the exact shade Miss Tarth was wearing in the meeting.  
  
He’s pretty sure he made his bed, but the covers are thrown back now – and something’s drying on the sheets. Tonight. She’s been here tonight. In his bed.  
  
The puddle excites him – it smells like heaven and gods there’s so _much_ of it! This sheet, the panties - he’s never been with a woman who gets so wet before. The thought of slamming his cock into such an insanely drenched, dripping cunt gets him so fucking hard. And the thought of her sitting on his face, smothering him with her huge powerful thighs, drowning him with her juices …  
  
He’s already stroking his cock through his pants, crazy with lust. Now he yanks his zipper open, freeing himself to the firm ministrations of his palm. He dips his head to the sheet, licking at the puddle she’s left for him, losing himself in the scent and taste. He’s going to come right where she did – he’s going to blow his load into that delicious, heavenly puddle.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, he spots something poking out from under his pillow. A corner of something square.  
  
He flips his pillow over. Photographs – polaroids. A dozen of them. His lust-soaked mind takes a moment to comprehend what’s on them.  
  
A nipple. A perky little pink one, on a flushed breast. An extreme closeup of a cunt, fingers playing with it, buried inside. Miss Tarth’s face, contorted with pleasure … Licking the fingers she was using on herself …  
  
In one she has something in her mouth. Something red. Lannister red. He almost explodes when he realises what it is. It’s his butt plug. The one he keeps in his bedside drawer for when he’s feeling particularly horny.  
  
There’s one of her looking right into the camera, naked on all fours, the butt plug in her hand, licking it with the very point of her tongue.  
  
He almost loses it. Almost reaches for his phone. If he called personnel, asked for her private number - Gods, she could be here in a few minutes. He could have her on top of him, hands on those tits, face in her cunt.  
  
Something tells him she wouldn’t want that, though. Something tells him he can do it better.  
  
Instead, he delves in the back of his wardrobe and finds the Go-Pro. Straps it to the well-worn knob on his bedpost and sets it to record. This he _knows_ she will love.

  
Brienne  
  
A delicious, long soak in the bath is in order given today’s exertions. Head and nape cushioned against the tub with folded, fluffy towel, she closes her eyes. The bath salts tingle and tease. The lemon scented bubbles make her feel she’s floating.

When she’s done a while later, she stands before the mirror. Her skin is pink and there’s a sleepy, languid expression on her face. As if she’s had the most amazing, soulful fuck. She feels reborn.

The night calls for silk rather than the usual cotton nightwear. Midnight blue edged with black Myrish lace. It’s a cool, sensuous wash on skin, specially on her nipples and cunt. She can’t help but moan a little as she drags the hem toward her hips.

The bath had relaxed her but now that she’s upright and the blood is rushing fast in her body, and the slide of silk feels like the most wicked tongue. There  are those feelings again: the ache in her nipples yearning for the latch of a warm, greedy mouth, the hollowness in her cunt, getting wet and wetter, faster than she could breathe because it’s desperate for a cock. Her legs are unsteady as she makes her way to the nightstand. Something there would have to do for now.

She’s just selected the biggest, most realistic-looking dildo, sized for Valyrian Magnum Ecstasy condoms, in fact, when her phone buzzes. Grunting in annoyance, she picks up the phone, squawks upon seeing the notification and drops the dildo.

_E-mail from Jaime Lannister._

Why was he emailing her?!?

Stupid, she reminds herself, picking up the dildo and clutching it to her heart. Her eyes don’t leave the phone. She sits on the bed, heart racing, mouth dry, and swipes a finger across the screen. Why won’t he email her after the souvenir she left in his bed would be worrying. She chuckles _No. Souvenirs._

From: Jaime Lannister

Subject: Video

Miss Tarth,

Those sheets cost five hundred golden dragons.

A Lannister always pays his debts.

 

Oh no. She hugs herself, wondering if she’s gone too far.

This is as far as the fun will get, it seems. 

Well. If he recorded her fun on his bed and plans to get the law involved, she might as well face the music. She goes to her laptop on the desk and types the password.

She clicks his email again, then the video icon. Almost immediately, it starts to play.

And she swears she’s died and gone to heaven.

Jaime Lannister.

_Naked._

“By the Seven,” she breathes, crashing heavily on the chair. The dildo thumps unnoticed to the floor.

Gods. What a specimen.

He steps away from the camera, just until she sees from the top of his tousled golden head to his ginormous penis. Seven Hells. It fits a magnum? The condom industry would have to come up with another size after that! It’s an absolute monster. A beautiful, hard, furious monster.

His emerald eyes are amused, his dimples flash deep as he grins mockingly at the camera. She licks her lips, imagining her tongue discovering the taste of his skin, its texture. She balls her fists tightly because if it were possible to squeeze the lean muscles of his arms right now, she would. Her eyes water staring at his chest. She wants to nuzzle her face on the golden fur there, trace her tongue down his abs and nibble on the hard bulges of defined muscle.

He stares right at the camera, so it’s like he’s staring right at her. As if he’s here, now, stroking himself. She whines in frustration, biting her fist, her feet arching on the floor as her legs get restless.

Then Jaime picks up something from the side.

It’s her panties.

She swallows.

“No one walks away from me,” he declares in a tone that indicates he will not be stopped.  it, come what may. He crushes the material in his fist. “Especially when you don’t have panties, Miss Tarth.”

Then he presses the delicate fabric to his face, groaning loudly. Brienne’s jaw slams to the floor as his cock, right before her very eyes, hard and already pointing straight up, swells a few more inches.

Jaime’s groans are the filthiest, most vulgar sounds. He rubs the crotch of her panties on his face, fists his cock then rubs it roughly. It is positively the angriest cock she has seen in her life and her thighs are wet. _Wet!_ His eyes close, his slender lips fall open.

She would _kill_ to be there, right now. Sucking on his neck. Pressing her breasts against his hard, furry chest. And gods, Jaime Lannister is just beautiful. It has to be said. It can not be said enough. He looks beautiful with his head falling back, throat arching as if he _knows_ exactly what she wishes to do with him there.

Suddenly he yanks her panties from his face. She watches in shocked fascination as his cock expels a thick stream of semen right on her panties, painting the rich, red colour dark, darker. He curses and shouts, head jerking back sharply as his hips thrust in the air. His eyes open.

Dazed emeralds stare at her. He’s panting and his chest gleams with sweat.

Then he smiles, as if he’s discovered something magical. His eyes pierce right into her soul.

“Bet I made you very, very wet.”

  
Jaime  
  
The next morning, he goes for breakfast as he always does, in his favourite coffee shop. He orders his wake-up bagel and a coffee. As he pays, he leans over to the guy behind the counter.  
  
“There’ll be a woman in here soon. You can’t miss her, she’s a giant, Amazonian thing. Blonde. She’ll order the same thing I just did.”  
  
“Oh yeah, I know who you mean. Brienne, right?”  
  
“Brienne,” he tries out her name. Brienne Tarth. “Yes, that’s her. When she orders, give her this.” He slides an envelope over the counter, along with a twenty. “This is for her bagel and coffee too.”.  
  
“No problem.”  
  
“Thanks.”  
  
He takes his seat, watching the door and waiting for her. He wants to see her. He wants to see her face.  


Brienne

  
She frowns at the guy behind the counter of the bagel place. “Excuse me?”

“Look, Brienne, the guy just told me to give you this, alright?” The guy behind the counter is in impatient as he waves the envelope at her. “You’re friends, aren’t you? He knows you. And you always order the same bagel.”

She scowls. The jalapenos and hot sauce came close to annihilating her digestive system.

“Do you want this or not? Look, he even paid for your bagel.” He holds up the other package.

“Fine.” She takes them. “Thanks, I guess.”

“He took care of your coffee too.”

She finds a booth and goes there to take a seat. The bagel she pushes away—it’s simply not fit for human consumption. But not the coffee. She takes a sip of warm beverage. Her eyes rest on the bulky envelope on the table.

Fuck Jaime Lannister for torturing her with his video. He even guest-starred in her dreams through the night. Naked, of course. Seven hells. The man’s unbelievably, extremely well-hung. She crosses her legs, blushing and hides her face in the coffee again.

She sips halfway before deciding to open the envelope. It contains something soft. She lifts the flap, looks inside, and jumps back, slamming her spine against the bench.

It jars the customer right behind her. “Hey!”

“Sorry. My apologies,” she says quickly, staring at the envelope in disbelief.

When she moves, it’s to pick it up and look inside again. Damn. She doesn’t have to stick her face close to smell hers and Jaime’s come. It also doesn’t need a closer look to know that it’s stiff and would probably snap in half. In the video, Jaime only jerked off to her panties once. The rest were close-ups of his face, his chest, his cock.

It’s a bad idea but she reaches in, quickly, before retracting her hand back.

Confirmed. Her panties are as stiff as a board. No, he didn’t just. . .um, enjoy them, once.

Her face is hot. Her nipples thrust painfully against her sweater. Her cunt is _wet._

No. _She can’t._ She can’t be like this the entire day!

She finishes her coffee. Right. She’ll have to dash to the bathroom and finger herself. It will be quick, it will not be very good, but at least she won’t be horny all day. Seven only knows what will happen when she and Jaime cross paths today, though.

When she’s old and stooped, and struggles to remember, she knows that video is going to be her clearest memory. She’s pretty sure it’s all she’ll still be thinking about it on her death bed.

Brienne gathers her things, pushes the envelope in her bag. She’s about to get up when she happens to look at the booth right across hers.

Emerald eyes. Dimples.

_Jaime._

Jaime  
  
He raises his coffee cup to her with a knowing smirk. He knows what state she’s in right now – he’s seen the evidence on his sheets and in her panties. He bets she’s _dripping_.   
  
He’d love to go over there and crawl under the table in her booth. Fuck the other customers watching them, fuck the CCTV. He wants to hike up her skirt and drink every drop, lick it from her thighs and not stop until she screams. He knows he can make her scream.  
  
But not yet. Not yet.   
  
She leaves. He eats his bagel. The burning jalapenos and hot sauce just inflame him further. Plus, of course, they will make his come nice and spicy. She might like that.

Ugh, it’s going to be so good. Plugging up her dirty great mouth with his cock. Pulling her hair so she arches her neck, yanking her head back so he pops out of her mouth, spurting his load on her lips, her cheeks, her chin …  
  
Licking it off her face afterwards.  
  
He feels weak at the thought. He’s not going to make it through the day.  
  
He buttons his trench coat to hide his stonking great boner – seriously, will it ever go away? Then heads down the street to the dark little sex store on the corner known as Alayaya’s Pleasure House. He’s been in a few times, made a few purchases. Nothing he’s ever shared with a woman, though. He’s never met a woman as filthy as him before.  
  
But Brienne Tarth … wow.  
  
He pushes his way past the DVD section, through the French maid and nurse outfits, all the way down to the cellar of the store. Under his coat, his cock twitches and throbs as he looks at the cornucopia of equipment. Imagining her in a ball gag, imagining her putting one on him. Maybe she’d tie him up in his office, use one of these leather restraints. Maybe she’d bend him over his desk, yank his pants down …. Yes. Yes.   
  
This one. This is it.  
  
He lifts it down from the hooks on the wall, weighing it up. It’s heavy, but she’s big. Strong. It will work nicely.

  
  
Brienne

  
The meeting lasts until lunch so she’s ready to stuff her face by the time it’s over. She goes to her desk to get her wallet when she sights the oddest items to ever be on her desk. The cubicle at least hides them, somewhat, but curious looks greet her as she approaches. By the time she’s there, her cheeks are the deep colour of beets.

White roses. Full, voluptuous blooms. Delicate. Long-stemmed. She slowly sets her folder and tablet down, staring at the them as if she expects them to bite her.  

Well, they are beautiful. Objectively. She touches one of the petals and takes a quick whiff. Nobody has given her flowers before. It would be nice to see a card somewhere—

A box. Square and black, tied with a crimson ribbon. She undoes it and looks inside.

Then quickly makes sure she’s all alone.

Because no one can know what’s in the box. She admires his boldness, his recklessness. HR had specifically emphasized in the employee handbook that relationships with each other is discouraged. And inside is proof of what can be construed as sexual harassment.

But she smiles and runs her fingers reverently on the surface of the paddle, its smooth, wooden handle, the Post-It stuck on top. He knows her so well. 

_See me about the Braavos deal._

  
  
Jaime  
  
He’s been trying to read her report all morning. Trying and failing. If he’s honest it’s not only the constant, pounding arousal level, it’s the fact that the report, the subject, the whole job he does, is as dull as shit.  
  
His father is kidding himself if he thinks Jaime is ever going to be able to take his place as CEO. He doesn’t have the aptitude, he doesn’t have the interest. He’s good at looking good in meetings, being ruthless when required. But the nuts and bolts, the day-to-day, the facts and figures – they’re not Jaime. They’re Tyrion, even Cersei when she’s not trying to backstab everyone else in the office.  
  
He turns around in his chair and looks out of the floor-to-ceiling windows, over the city. The smoke and the traffic and the buildings.  
  
There’s someone in his office.  
  
He hears breathing. Heavy breathing. Suddenly, a hand snakes round his chair and grasps him by the crotch. A big hand. Nails painted scarlet like her lips.  
  
“Our meeting’s after lunch,” he says.  
  
She spins his chair round with her foot. Sits on his desk in front of him, legs apart.  
  
“Lunch time is better,” she says. “Everyone’s out of the office. Your present … it’s noisy.”  
  
“I can be quiet.”  
  
“No you can’t.”  
  
She gets off his desk and pulls the cords on the blinds. The room goes dark. Hot. Then she stands in front of him in the near-dark. Her eyes glitter and her lips are moist and red.  
  
Slowly, the white ghosts of her fingers slide down her muscular thighs. He’s paralysed, his throat thick and wordless. Her fingertips curl around the hem of her skirt. He swallows. Swallows again. Inch by inch, she slides the skirt up. Higher. Higher still.  
  
Mid-thigh, she reveals lace. A band around each leg. Stockings. He groans. Reaches for her. She pushes his chair away with her foot, brushing his cock with the sole of her shoe.  
  
Already, the scent of her fills the air. Her bare thighs above the stockings glisten with moisture in the half light. His mouth drops open. He’s panting. His mouth waters.  
  
He expects her panties are soaking wet. So wet they are transparent, so wet he will be able to see every detail of her cunt through them. But the reality is better than that.  
  
She’s not wearing any panties at all.  
  
She allows him a second’s look at her cunt – one second, not a heartbeat more. Then she drops her skirt and yanks him out of his seat by the tie. She’s strong – very strong. She has him bent over his desk before he’s had a chance to gasp, face on his antique blotter, pinning him down with her weight on his back. She licks his ear with a little growl and then gets off him.  
  
He attempts to lift his head, but she shoves him back down. “You wanted this? Take it like a man,” she breathes.  
  
From the corner of his eye, he sees she has the paddle in her hand.  
  
“Try not to scream.”  
  
He doesn’t have time to think of a pithy retort before she brings the paddle down in a vicious arc. It hits his buttocks with a hefty slap, knocking the breath and a grunt from him. It stings – oh gods it stings so much, the blood rushing to his rump in a burning pulse.  
  
“Again,” he says. She obliges. Hard enough to move the desk an inch across the floor.  
  
“Again,” he begs. “Oh Gods, don’t stop!”  
  
Brienne  
  
His voice should be illegal.

His ass too.

She licks her lips, enjoying the reddening flush on his butt. She traces a fingernail across and round the hot skin, smirking as the tight muscles flexed from the intense sensation.

“Gods,” he groans. His knuckles are white from clutching the edge of the desk.

Then she tightens her grip on the paddle again and smacks him on the burning flesh.

“Again!”

She obliges.

“Again!”

Another. Then another. Sweat makes his white shirt translucent on his back.

“Gods damn it.” Jaime growls. _“Again!”_

She’s giddy and wants to laugh. This is more fun that she imagined it would be. She revels in the sight of him breathing rapidly, his ass thrusting toward her eagerly. Oh, he really is beautiful and just perfect everywhere. Hands of the Seven surely sculpted this fine piece of asswork.

Her eyes bright, she unsnaps her skirt. Jaime jerks his head in the direction of the muffled fall of linen on the carpet and she’s quick to press his head down on the desk. As he sighs, almost in relief, she moves until her cunt is against his ass.

“Miss Tarth?”

“Hmm,” she purrs, rubbing against him. The rough, untamed curls of her cunt must be the _sweetest hell_ on skin this red. She fists his thick hair, drawing his head up sharply while using the strength of her upper body to keep the rest of him down. He smells of sweat and citrus. She buries her face between his shoulder blades, loving how muscles and bone tense under her.

“Seven Hells, woman. Where the fuck have you been all my life?”

She chuckles and bites him playfully on the tip of the ear, sucking it. As his body rumbles from his rough groan, she takes her time popping the bit of flesh from her lips. “I’ve always been here, Jaime.”

Jaime hisses and suddenly heaves himself up, but she’s stronger. _“No.”_

“Gods, Brienne.” Then his hand snakes behind him, toward her, to slide briefly on her thigh bordered by the stocking. “Seven hells.”

She kisses him on the neck, feeling another shudder go through him. His sweat stains her blouse, and she goes a little dizzy at the thought of smelling like him all day. He struggles a bit under her so she presses down harder. Covers his back with kisses, loving how the warmth of his body seems to melt away the shirt. As he calms under her, she pushes the shirt up and licks from the firm column of his spine, sucking the sweat from his skin as she moves lower. She slips to her knees and kisses gently the flushed left cheek of his ass.

_“Brienne.”_

She slips her hand around him, fondling his cock as she kisses the other cheek. “Hmm. Jaime.”

Jaime grunts. “Damn you. Turn me around. I want to fuck your face.”

“Are you sure that’s what you want?”

She loves what her little, barely-there kisses are doing to him. She grabs the paddle again, tapping him on the ass lightly repeatedly, lulling him to the expectation of a routine before smacking him again.

“Again!”

“I knew it.”

She whips the paddle onto his swollen ass, drawing another cry from him before tossing it away. As it clatters to the floor, she suddenly grabs him by the hips, pulling him a little away from the desk. Jaime obeys, straightening up a little. No doubt wondering about what she plans to do next.

She’s beginning to sweat herself, her body punishing her for not taking Jaime as she wants him. But his rough pleas make her light in the head, her cunt wet. As she takes hold of his cock from behind, she sweeps one his ass cheeks to the side.

Oh. This is unexpected. Stuff will bounce off Jaime’s ass. He’s that firm and nice. But inside, he’s all pink. Like a pink doughnut hole.

_It’s fucking adorable._

Giggling, she sinks her tongue in it.

“What—” Jaime’s shocked gasp must be her new ringtone. She rubs his cock harder, her hand speeding up.

She opens him some more and the earnest thrusts of her tongue become swift, hungry dips tasting the most secret part of him. He groans and trembles under her tongue, his cock swells harder in her hand.

As his groans get rougher, louder, she tucks another hand between his thighs to play with his balls. He’s got a very firm, very plump set. Jaime cries out, his cock ramrod stiff in her hand. She licks along the sensitive inner crease and he rewards her with a shout that threatens to have the walls crashing in on them. The gift of his semen floods her fist.

Up and down her hand milks him while she continues fucking his asshole with her tongue. He’s fucking her face back, swallowing her in between the hard cheeks then thrusting hard against her hand. The desk moves farther and farther away from its original spot. The rug burns her knees but she’s not going to stop.

He sighs when the last of him spills on her hand. She groans too, collapsing on her butt on the carpeted floor. She can still taste him, she smells of him. She smells herself too—she came while he was in the throes of his own orgasm. As she tries to see through the white spots flitting before her eyes, he turns around and wearily collapses against the desk.

He’s only half-hard now but he’s still big. When she looks up, he’s looking at her with wild hunger.

She gets back on her knees and caresses his thighs. Tracks of semen gleam from them and she leans in to lick the first. Then the next. Another. He groans with a half-smile when she frowns, her tongue discovering a familiar flavour. But because it comes with _his_ semen, she can’t resist. Even when there’s the unmistakable fire of jalapenos.

She licks his thighs clean, then his cock. Now this is her favourite flavour. Sweat. _Him_. He gets hard as she sucks him gently. She has to stop herself, or they’ll be here for the night. A soft kiss on the fat, mushroom-head of his cock and she licks all the way to his navel.

She unbuttons the lower half of his shirt before kissing her way up. Another shudder breaks through him under her kisses. She unknots his tie, sliding it off him to crush the silk in her fist while reaching for the rest of the buttons. She licks his collarbones, the pulse at the base of his throat. He sighs and hugs her, offering his neck. He smells and tastes of summer and man.

He catches her by the hair and crushes her mouth to his. It’s a hard, dominating kiss, and her lips part without question. While his hand tangled in her hair keeps her head anchored, the other tugs her blouse open. Warm lips trace the long line of her throat. She squeaks as he pulls a red nipple deeply between his lips, hand lowering between her bodies, towards her cunt.

“Jaime,” she moans, and his mouth returns on her. She embraces him, then, kissing him back feverishly, artlessly, caring only for his tongue in her mouth and his fingers in her cunt, savage and deep. When she comes, she bites him hard on the lip, drawing blood and licking it off. He grunts and buries the entire length of his fingers in her clenching channel, before drawing his lips away to watch her pant and flush through her orgasm.  

Her quickened breathing slows down. As her weak legs drive her to sway toward him, he pulls his fingers out of her cunt. They drag a long, thick thread of her clear honey from inside her. As she gasps in shock, he chuckles, twirling his fingers to gather this wet, viscous essence of her to suck clean. She blushes at the deep hollowing of his cheeks, at his eyes brightening up. As if he’s tasting ambrosia.

“Who knew you’re sweet,” he drawls, slowly puling his fingers out. “That surely beats jalapenos.”

She’s thrilled by the compliment but she won’t let him off easy for how he had tasted.

She licks the tip of his nose suddenly, making him smile.

Then she slaps him across the face.

His dumbfounded expression is so worth it. And when a delirious grin spreads across his face, it’s like she’s scored an entire gold mine. Delicately, she dabs the sides of her swollen lips with her fingertips, blushing as his eyes follow her motions. She makes a big show of stretching out the dark emerald strip that is his tie, long, pale fingers running down the smooth cloth before lowering it between her legs.

Jaime looks like he’s stopped breathing as she uses his necktie to wipe her cunt clean. Her smile is innocent, her eyes wicked, as she drapes it around his shoulders.

“Thank you for the lunch, Mr. Lannister.”  

  
Jaime  
  
While most of the floor (including Miss Tarth) is attend an end-of-day meeting with his brother, Jaime sneaks off to the cafeteria. No one is on duty so he helps himself to a couple of hot dogs and a soda. When he’s sure no one is coming, he fills a bag of ice from the machine. Hobbles back to his office.  
  
In the privacy of his bathroom, he drops his trousers to inspect the damage in the mirror. He’s pleasantly surprised. His butt is criss-crossed with red marks and is probably going to sport some bruises, but she hasn’t broken the skin, for all her strength. He’s impressed by her skill and wonders if his isn’t the first ass she’s paddled.  
  
Gingerly, he holds the bag of ice against the burning flesh. It feels good. Relieved.  
  
This – whatever this is with the outlandish Miss Tarth – is nearing its endgame. He can feel it. They’ve played with each other, toyed with each other enough now. It’s time to go hard or go home.  
  
He sits in his office (with the bag of ice between him and the chair) to eat his hot dogs and plot out his plan for tomorrow. Maybe another video tonight? Perhaps she’d like a butt plug show.  
  
He thinks about exposing himself, flashing to her somehow in the coffee shop tomorrow too. Risky though – if someone saw him. He’d hate to lose his favourite breakfast haunt - their coffee’s pretty good and no one else does his wake-up bagel just the way he likes it. His father would be likely to use the paddle on Jaime himself if he got himself arrested too.  
  
He limps to the elevator at 5.45 – sick of the sight of the place and more than ready to get home. day. The parking garage gives him a few ideas – if they can avoid the security cameras. The back seat of his Jag is pretty big, too, even for a giant like Brienne Tarth. He thinks he could get her on his lap at least. Worth some thought.  
  
The drive home is uncomfortable, even with the heated seats on to massage his sore rump. He winces every time he pushes his feet on the pedals. He thinks she will like to see how sore and red he is though, when he does the butt plug video. Maybe a nice cool bath would be a good idea first, though. Take some of the heat out of his skin.  
  
He lets himself in and slings his briefcase in the closet. Dumps his coat. Goes to the kitchen and crams a doughnut into his mouth. Frosting and buttercream splurge everywhere. He grabs another one and takes it to the bathroom.  
  
He gets the bath running. Tips some sports salts in the water. They work on tired muscles – a spanked ass is the same, surely?  
  
He takes a bite of the second doughnut – this one is filled with jelly and covered with glittery pink sprinkles. His favourite. He looks in the mirror at his hair, plays with it a bit. Turns around to check his bath.  
  
Turns back.  
  
Behind him in the mirror. Through the door to the bedroom. The mirror shows an angle of his bed, the bottom half. There’s a leg. A naked leg.  
  
He gapes at it for a long, long moment. It’s a long leg. A very, very long leg indeed.  
  
He walks, deliberately slowly, into his bedroom. Once again, his sheets are thrown back, but this time, there’s no puddle.  
  
Just a person. Just a very perfect, very naked Miss Brienne Tarth. She lifts an eyebrow. He puts his doughnut down.  
  
Endgame indeed.

  
  
Brienne  
  
She sits up, curling her legs slowly toward her chest as Jaime puts the doughnut on the dresser. Another man would look ridiculous with eyes bugging out and pink frosting on his lips. Not Jaime. Never.

He stands at the foot of the bed, staring at her incredulously. She tucks her short hair behind an ear. “Hi.”

“Hi?” Jaime echoes, recovering from his initial shock. Then he smiles, delighted and mischievous all at once. He sits down and strokes her leg. “After what you did that’s all you can say?”

He’s teasing her, taking her leg gently to put himself between the cradle of her thighs. She should be embarrassed at how wet she is—she’s been smelling herself since stripping and climbing into his bed. But his sheets are unchanged. It’s exciting how dirty Jaime is turning out to be, she thinks, blushing as he closes his eyes, inhaling deeply. His face is the picture of total bliss. He opens his eyes and bends toward her leg.  

He nibbles at the inside of her firm calf and she swears she’s going to peak in seconds. Unable to stop herself from trembling, she groans, “I have something.”

“Something, eh?” Jaime’s lips brush the inside of her thigh, his hair caressing the curls of her cunt.

“Wait,” she begs him. Jaime obeys her, and she gives him a grateful look before turning to the side briefly to get her gift-wrapped packages there. The first is a bulky, rectangular box.

“A gift?” Jaime is surprised but pleased.

She nods and holds up two fingers. “Gifts. Open it.”

“Alright. What’s this? An album of your nudes?” He asks hopefully. “I should have them scanned and used as my study’s new wallpaper.”

“Don’t you dare,” she retorts as he rips open the wrapper to reveal the clear box under it. She blushes watching him trying to make sense of her gift.

“Beddings, wench?” Jaime asks. “Well, this is. . .thoughtful. Thanks.”

It’s cute how confused he looks so she puts the smaller box between them. “I think this explains why you’ll need new sheets.”

“Who says I need new ones? I love sleeping surrounded by the perfume of your cunt.” He tells her, opening the box, anyway. Brienne has to keep a grip of herself when he discovers the contents.

Jaime takes out the bright pink butt plug and the jumbo-sized bottle of lube. His grin is predatory.

“Dirty, naughty girl.”

 

Jaime  
  
He’s abruptly glad he ate those doughnuts – he’s got a feeling he’s going to need the energy. That butt plug is not a particularly small example of its type and the look in Brienne’s eyes suggests she is not going to take it easy.  
  
“Is this for me or for you?” he manages when he has remembered how to speak.  
  
She cocks an eyebrow and shrugs. “I guess we’ll see who manages to pin who down first.”  
  
He licks his lips. “Is that what you want? You want me to pin you down? Ravish you? Show you how it feels to be a woman?”  
  
“Do you think you’re strong enough?”  
  
“Oh, I’m strong enough.”  
  
“Maybe we’ll find out.”  
  
He undoes his tie – stained mess that it is – then slowly, deliberately pulls it off his neck and drops it to the floor. His fingers slide to the buttons on his shirt. She’s salivating before he’s even got his chest hair exposed - this is going to be easy.  
  
Indeed, she’s slowly climbing onto all fours already, turning around to point her sexy, big behind at him. It’s amazing. Beautiful – firm and round and begging to have his hands and his tongue all over it.  
  
Fuck the striptease - he drops his trousers as fast as he can, hopping around so he can get them off his legs. Leaves his socks on. She’s watching him over her shoulder with her mouth open, her shiny red mouth. He doesn’t know where he wants to stick his cock most.  
  
He clambers up behind her and grabs her ass, his cock drooling in anticipation. He’s going to hold her hips, shove inside her, show her what it’s really like to be dominated. He’s going to have her begging for more.

She slides her hand up his thigh as he moves in. It feels like a loving, sensual caress – until it doesn’t. Suddenly, he’s on his back beneath her, flipped over in one quick flick of her arms and legs.  
  
“Slow,” she says. “Predictable.”  
  
So that’s how it is. She’s not going to just let him dominate her. He’s got to _actually_ dominate her. If he can.  
  
He tries to push her up, but she has him at a disadvantage, her long legs coiled around his and her hands holding his wrists hard against the pillow. She slams him back down easily.  
  
“You going to let a woman beat you?”  
  
“You’re not beating me.”  
  
She lowers her hips to his, letting the slippery seam of her cunt glide along the length of his shaft. He groans.  
  
“I don’t think you’re as good as you think you are,” she hisses in his ear.  
  
He steals a kiss then, arching up with his neck to catch her lips with his, tender but ardent. He thinks she’ll pull away, but to his surprise she melts into it, sucking his tongue into her mouth with the sweetest little moan.

This is how to dominate her, he realises. She’s as stubborn as the seven hells, and if he’s honest he thinks she really is physically stronger - but she _wants_ him. Badly enough to go through his garbage, badly enough to break into his house.   
  
The look in her eyes as he nibbles her chin … she’s in heaven. Sighing and humming and eyes half-lidded with desire. He whispers a few sweet nothings in her ear and she lets go of his wrists, plunging her fingers into his hair and stroking his cheek with her thumb.  
  
This leaves his hands free. Free to wander unobstructed over her body - every muscle, every curve. She feels delicious - Brienne is at least twice as large as every other woman he’s ever fucked – every stroke of her body feels endless.  
  
His hand finds its way between her plentiful thighs, and he plunges two fingers into her flooded cunt. He’s rewarded by a positively girlish squeak and a slick of those delicious warm juices for his fingers and his palm. He rubs her, softly at first, the heel of his hand pressing her clit with every stroke.

After only a few minutes, she’s boneless on top of him, arching and writhing, panting and keening. He knows right now he will never be disappointed by her cunt– she’s unbelievably wet. Her juices are literally running down his arm. Belatedly, he remembers he forgot to take his Breitling off. Ah well.

His other arm gropes across the bed, finding the gift box, finding the treasure within. Brienne has her eyes screwed tightly shut as she thrusts herself hard against his hand, her thighs slapping hard against his knees. He’s delighted to discover she has the most ugly-cute come face in all the world, and she grunts like a pig. He’s literally never wanted anyone more.  
  
Her mouth finds his in the aftermath of her orgasm and she kisses him sloppily, all teeth and tongue and sated warmth.  
  
He’s got her. The hand between her legs keeps rubbing, but further now. Wider, spreading her copious moisture around her thighs, up between her buttocks. His other hand slips the butt plug, that cheeky, cotton-candy coloured beauty, between her cheeks and into her ass before she’s even registered what he’s done.  
  
Her eyes go wide as he slips it in – it’s a tight fit but he’s lubed her well.  
  
“Well played,” she husks.  
  
“Feel good?”  
  
She nods.  
  
He smirks. Gives it a playful tug to make sure it’s well seated.  
  
Her eyes close at the sensation. “Dear Gods.”  
  
“You haven’t lived until you come with one inside you,” he tells her.  
  
“Make me come.”  
  
He pretends to think about it. “Hmmm, I think it’s my turn?”  
  
The fire comes back in her eyes almost at once. “This doesn’t work like that, Jaime.”  
  
“No?”  
  
She pins his wrists again, this time both together with one of her hands. “No.”  
  
She reaches down the side of the bed with her other hand and comes up triumphantly with his tie. Loops it around the headboard and then around his crossed wrists before knotting it tight. Very tight. Jaime tests his bonds – he couldn’t get out of them if he tried.  
  
The look on her face is totally feral. He wonders if he should have asked for a safe word.  
  
He doesn’t have much chance to speak though. Before he’s drawn a breath she’s straddled his shoulders and lowered herself onto his face.  
  
Gods she’s huge. So big he actually thinks she might suffocate him, but he’s skilled with his tongue and he knows how to render her insensate almost immediately. He alternates between licking, sucking, drinking her juices and nudging the butt plug with his chin.  
  
He was right. He can make her scream.  
  
After she’s finished scaring the neighbours, she finally turns her attention to him. But not generously. In fact she barely touches him at all.   
  
She stalks around the bed, eyes and thighs shining and wet, the bright pink head of the butt plug poking out from between her cheeks. Jaime’s face is soaked – he has what he’s pretty sure constitutes a puddle on his chest. Eventually, she strokes a long, thick finger down the underside of his aching cock. It jumps and twitches at her touch and he moans.  
  
She cups his balls in her hand.  
  
“Tell me I’m beautiful,” she says at last in a low, dangerous voice.  
  
She isn’t. Not objectively. She’s too big, too ungainly, her features broad and plain. But he has honestly never found anyone more attractive, more desirable. “You are.”  
  
She squeezes, lightly. “Again,” she says. Her grip doesn’t loosen. She’s holding him right on the edge of pain.  
  
“You are,” he manages to pant. “Oh Gods you are so beautiful.”  
  
“Good,” she breathes, and drops her head to lick the head of his cock. She doesn’t let go of his balls.  
  
“More,” he chokes.  
  
“More what, Jaime? More of this?” she licks his cock again. “Or more of _this?_ ” Her grip tightens on his balls even further.  
  
“Ahhhh … both. Please.”  
  
There’s an ache in his belly, right in the pit of his stomach - it’s pain and arousal both. He twists his pelvis, unsure as to whether he’s trying to escape her grasp or thrust himself further into it.  
  
“Tell me you’re mine,” she whispers.   
  
“I’m yours.”  
  
“Tell me.”  
  
“I’m yours. I belong to you.”  
  
She twists her wrist, ever so slightly, but it’s enough to make him whine. She rewards him by taking him fully into her mouth, sucking and swirling her tongue.  
  
“Brienne …” he gasps, hips thrusting helplessly into her mouth.  
  
“Mmmm …” she murmurs around his cock. “Say that again.”  
  
“Brienne,” he says, a sigh and a symphony.  
  
“Good,” she smiles, showing her wide teeth. “Call me by my name. Call me Brienne.”  
  
“Yes … Brienne.”

Suddenly, she slides off him. Reaches in the drawer to pull out the condoms. Valyrian Magnum Ecstasy. Jaime stares at her with adoration and desperation as her big teeth tear open a packet. Her eyes drop to his cock. “Kingslayer,” she whispers, then glances back at him. She takes out the condom.

He grins and caresses her hard thighs. “Kingslayer, huh?”

“Yeah.” She strokes him and he hears himself purr. “This can rule the Seven Kingdoms.”

“But before it can,” he groans, thrusting against her hand, “I believe there must be a clash of kings first. Gods. _Brienne._ ” He squeezes his eyes shut.

He feels himself harden some more as he senses her lean close, her breath feathering his cheek. “Do you promise a storm of swords?”

He opens his eyes and looks at her. “Just one sword, wench. That’s all it will take.”

She takes him by the jaw and presses a hard kiss on his mouth. He catches the tip of her tongue and sucks quickly. She shakes against him then she straightens up, moving back to take his cock in her hand again.

“Again.”  
  
She straddles him.  
  
Her meaning is clear. “Brienne.”

She lights up, flushed and giving him a quick smile before taking  his cock. He breathes deeply as she rolls the condom down. Their eyes meet. They burn like molten gemstones. She rocks against him.  
  
Positions him underneath her dripping heat.  
  
“Oh Gods yes. Brienne!”  
  
Lowers herself onto him, inch by inch.   
  
He wants to grab her hips, impale her on his cock – this is torturously slow. Instead he begs. He has a feeling that will be more effective.  
  
He’s not wrong. Or maybe she just wants a good hard fuck too. She leans forward with her palms on his chest, squashing the air from his lungs as she bounces on his cock and then rocks back to feel the butt plug.  
  
“Harder,” he begs. “Harder please …”  
  
She fucks him harder, riding him with abandon, her head down. Eyes on his. Her powerful legs strain at his sides, moving her up and down, back and forth. The bed shakes violently, banging the headboard against the wall, straining the constraints on his wrists.  
  
Their guttural cries mix and rise together, building, building. Her bright red nails dig into his pecs, hard enough to leave little crescent-shaped wounds.   
  
He’s going to burst. Every part of him is going to explode - he feels like his skin will rip open and come will spray from every pore. He feels like he’s drowning. He feels like he’s on fire. Then, abruptly, that sensation coalesces in his cock, and he realises he’s coming.  
  
So is Brienne. She’s making that cute pig noise again, face flushed a bright embarrassed-schoolgirl red.  
  
With one last almighty thrust of her hips she collapses on top of him.  
  
Abruptly, there is a huge crack from behind her, and the bed lurches beneath them. The footboard collapses completely, and Brienne is unable to prevent herself from tumbling off the bed. She lands in a sweaty, tangled heap of sheets and limbs.   
  
Jaime’s arms are almost pulled out of their sockets by the sudden wrench against his restrained wrists.  
  
“Shit,” he breathes when the whole thing has settled into a pile of splintered timber.  “Shit.”

Brienne grins, a wide, toothy grin of pure cheekiness. “Well, I think we can say the stalker game was a complete success?”

Brienne

The sectional sofa will fit them both for tonight, just about. She finishes tucking the covers under the corners, straightening up as Jaime emerges with a tray. She gapes at his bare chest, narrow hips cased in dark blue track pants.

“Coffee and sugar,” he tells her, setting it on the coffee table. The rich aroma of coffee is soothing. She eyes the lone doughnut, crowned generously with pink sprinkles. Blushing, she shifts her weight from one foot then to the other, feeling a lingering twitch in her bottom. The strap of her plain white cotton nightie slips down one shoulder. She quickly fixes it. When she looks back at him, his gaze is heated, and the corner of his lips is quirked in a smirk.

It’s plain, and threadbare from countless spins in the wash. She keeps it at his place because it’s his favourite on her—the thinness of the cloth shows the pink thrust of her nipples and her thick bush.

“There’s only one, I’m afraid,” he says, turning her to plant a quick kiss on her lips. Kisses given for no other reason but to kiss is one of her weaknesses.  “If you don’t mind sharing?”

She licks her lips before answering, the pink in her cheeks having leaped to deep, dark crimson after the kiss. He still tastes of her.

“I’d love it,” she answers.

She breaks the doughnut neatly in half although she takes the piece with fewer sprinkles. Jaime is a man of many layers. Rich, handsome, cocky businessman on the first. Generous, passionate, playful lover on the next. A dutiful albeit mouthy son. Patient brother. Fastidious and vain with his appearance.

The man who sees her truly, clearly, and refuses to change anything about her.

“Come, put your feet up over here,” he gestures on his lap. She goes to the other end of the sofa and is about to place her legs on him when her nightie rides up high. He makes a big show of licking his lips as he stares at her cunt: swollen and pink from their fucking, the thick, dirty-blond curls sticky and dark. Vainly, she tugs at the edge to retain some modesty and he chuckles at her efforts.

“Take the fucking thing off,” he tells her, his tone tender. “You look better without it.”

“No,” she insists, settling for keeping her fists clutching at the nightie to keep it down. Her pointed, defiant look clearly charms him.

“Alright,” he drawls, taking her legs to put them on his lap. Then his face suddenly brightens up and he takes one of the mugs from the table to hand it to her. He smiles innocently at her scowl. “Get it while it’s hot, wench.”

Having no choice, she takes it from him, careful not to slosh any of the liquid on her person. She sighs, cocking an eyebrow at him when her nightie rides up once it’s free. He shrugs, all innocence again, before taking half of the pastry from the plate to give it to her. He picks up the other cup and makes a show of taking a long, slow sip. There’s no mistaking the sly, heated sideways glance he directs between her legs before meeting her eyes.

She takes the other half of the doughnut, making sure he gets the other with more sprinkles. Keeping her modesty is a lost cause. Besides, Jaime enjoys it when she dispenses with it.

They sit in comfortable silence eating the sugary pastry. Its frosting and sprinkles make for a somewhat messy eating, and with her other hand holding the coffee, she can’t dust off the bits that fall on her chest. Jaime doesn’t seem to mind the mess too, getting some of the cream on the corner of his lips. Her stomach gets warmer just looking at it.

“I like this,” she says, cradling the warm cup between her hands before taking a sip to wash down the last of the doughnut. When she finishes, he’s watching her.

Jaime grins before finishing off his food. “I do make good coffee.”

She knows he’s deliberately misunderstanding her, so she pretends to kick him. He laughs, taking another sip of his coffee before putting it away, as well as her cup. Then, shooting her a look that makes her heart beat skip and her cunt ache, he takes her foot and starts rubbing it. She groans in pleasure. His hands are very warm.

“Those heels are so fucking sexy but these poor, giant things,” he murmurs, gently pressing on a particularly sore spot that draws a deeper groan from her.

“Well,” she sighs, “You like them. And I like them.”

“I’d still fuck you even if you go around in Uggs.”

“Hmm. That’s nice to know. I think.”

“Wearing _only_ Uggs,” he clarifies, making her giggle.

As he kneads her calf, drawing a purr from her this time, she asks, “I didn’t go too far, did I?”

“Too far? What do you mean?”

“Going through your trash. Sacrificing my stomach for your damned bagel.” She widens her eyes pointedly. “The paddle.”

Jaime’s eyes twinkled. “Wench, after seeing your photo with the butt plug in your mouth, I knew we were going to take it farther and farther _. It was fucking great_.” He kisses her instep. “It’s exactly the game we needed to deal with the Braavos thing. The stress alone in seeing it through is a quicksand. What if we hadn’t injected some fun in it?”

“I thought we were having _way_ too much fun,” she admits, smiling. She leans deeper against the pillows, hands on the back of her head.

He chuckles. “You sure did. Leaving the panties in the folder. Father would have killed me.”

She covers her face with her hands, body shaking with laughter. “Oh, gods.”

“It was fun, though. Feel free to do that anytime. And not just in the folder, wench.”

“Jaime,” she says, beginning to calm down. “That was totally reckless of me! HR made it clear that employees can not engage in romantic relationships.”

Jaime gives her a meaningful look before taking her other foot then massaging it. “Don’t worry about it,” he assures her.

“I had way too much fun.”

“I loved that you did. It was Seven Hells concentrating on the meeting with my father with your panties in my pocket. Your very wet panties.”

“Oh, gods,” she mutters again, hiding her burning cheeks in her hands. But she drops them and pretends to give him an accusing look. “Only because I overheard you. I’d rather I saw you too but I enjoyed listening to you, anyway. But you know I love watching you,” this she confesses in a whisper.

Jaime’s face is of giddy delight. “Why did you think I made the video? But wench, those photos,” his tone is reverent. “Holy Seven Hells. I kept the one of you with the butt plug. It’s my favorite.”

“What? No! Where?”

“In my wallet, of course.” 

“Jaime!”

“I should have that blown up,” he continues, enjoying her reaction. “An eight-by-ten in my office. Something to always inspire me to hurry with work and home to you.”

_“You wouldn’t.”_

“It’s either that or I have those wicked panties framed. I shouldn’t have given them back to you.”

She shakes her head at him, thrilled at how outrageous he could be, and also feeling like the luckiest girl in the world.

“You didn’t throw them away, did you, wench?”

She blushes. “They’re in my bag.”

“Good.”

“You’ll keep your hands off my bag and those panties, Jaime.”

He winks. “Try me.”

It’s no use. Part of her is mortified because she knows he’ll do it—either the blow-up or the framing—but a bigger part of her wants to see him fulfil them. He almost never breaks a promise. 

“Seriously, Brienne, the things we’ve done the last couple of days—they’re straight out of the dirtiest dreams. You’re only prim and proper on the outside and hot and wicked as sin underneath. You’re the best fuck in the world, with a cunt wetter than all oceans.”

He will never be the sort to make her weak in the knees with poetic proclamations of her beauty. He does it with the most vulgar compliments. She loves all of them. She thinks it’s sweet.

She watches him concentrate on freeing her foot and calf from the soreness and tightness nagging her since removing her shoes. He looks serious, concentrating on a spot that’s knotted tight and responsible for the cramp popping in the area now and then. His touch is firm, pressing, but not painful.

“You pretending to fuck with my head diffused a lot of unnecessary tension about cracking into Essos.”

“Are you still thinking of taking a shot at it?” She asks.

He pauses in massaging her then shakes his head. “No.”

This is news. “But. . .you were so adamant about it.”

“I was,” he admits, giving her foot a final rub before just keeping them on his lap. He caresses her leg. “Your report convinced me. And not because you did it with your nipples killing me or that very personal touch of your underwear. The region of Essos is a tricky, unpredictable market, more so its centre of commerce, Braavos. Best we hold off. Besides, I’m not the man for it.”

“Give it time,” she assures him, her eyes soft. Jaime is highly intelligent but unmotivated when something simply doesn’t interest him. He struggles with Tywin’s expectations as well as finding the balance between advancing his plans for the company and his father’s. He worries about displeasing him.

He doesn’t say anything. Instead, he moves toward her, nudging her legs apart. She raises the bottom of her nightie but it’s not enough for him. He pulls the entire thing over her head, baring her skin still flushed from their fucking, red, tender nipples, swollen cunt and stained thighs. Her blush is not of embarrassment, but the rush of blood in her body, anticipating being one with him again.

He gives her a taste by sinking the entire length of his finger in her cunt in one thrust. She gasps, throwing her head back. The squelch rising from the back-and-forth motions of his finger in her is proof of how wet she still is. She clenches around him instantly, grunting in carnal delight. His other hand plays with her nipple. Tugging it hard from the aureole, making her cry out as she jerks. The lights begin to dim when he hunches forward to take the stiff, swollen nub between his lips. The lash of his warm, wet tongue is too much. Eyes wide, she comes with a sharp little squeak.

She’s a boneless heap of spread legs and arms when she regains consciousness. The first thing she sees is Jaime stepping out of his pants. He grins at her as he returns to the sofa, quickly spreading her legs wide open again. Her heavy-lidded gaze drops to his lips and she smiles softly.

“You have sprinkles,” she murmurs, reaching up to touch his jaw.

He smirks. “So do you, wench.”

She reaches up to brush the sprinkles from her lips but sees his eyes are focused between her legs. She has a liberal amount of pink sprinkles decorating the hair of her cunt. Pink explodes in her cheeks, but Jaime, devil that he is, simply settles more comfortably on her, picking one up between his thumb and forefinger and popping it into his mouth. She squirms as his hand goes back to her cunt and pets the rough, damp curls. A finger delves between the folds, fucking her quickly before he tucks it between his lips and sucks. She holds her breath. He watches her as he pulls it out.

“Clean me up, wench,” he responds.

Jaime’s cock is in her cunt and his mouth buried in her throat before she takes her next breath. She takes his face in her hands as she kisses him back, moaning and swallowing his gasps as he fucks her. Their bodies move slowly, but no less urgently than previously. It would be hell sitting down tomorrow, let alone walking. But she doesn’t stop him from tucking a hand under her knee to push her leg higher and open her even more. She’s panting not just from the fucking but in working to fit him inside her. He’s breathtakingly huge and hard.

They come shuddering against each other, Jaime’s breath fanning her cheeks as his eyes bore hard into hers. She squeezes around him, greedy for every drop of his semen. He groans, closing his eyes briefly. Then he slants his mouth on hers, swallowing her wail as she comes. As her body softens, her tongue flicks out to take the last of the sprinkles from around his lips.

He spoons her from behind afterwards. Her smile is sleepy and content as gently nips at the tip of her earlobe.

“There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you,” he says, kissing her neck, cupping one of her breasts and plucking at the abused nipple. She grunts in feeble protest and he quickly pins her on the spot with a hard leg. His rough play on her nipple makes her sore cunt wet again.

“What?”

“You know I met with Tywin again,” he says conversationally, licking and kissing her, making her shiver. “Soon after you paddled me?”

“That’s because you asked me to,” she murmurs, stilling his hand on her breast so he would just cradle it. “What happened?”

“Wench, I know I should have talked to you first but. . .I quit.”

_“What?”_

She turns to him and he sighs, shifting to make room for her to move around. Still surprised, she echoes faintly, “You quit?”

He nods.

“Are you okay? I mean. . .he didn’t make you resign, did he?”

“On the contrary, he didn’t chew me out for deciding to let Braavos go. He doesn’t approve but after I showed him the stats and added my own recommendations, I think he began to see sense. I told him that now is not the time for Casterly Global. For the first time, the old man listened to me.”

“That’s great, Jaime. But why did you quit?”

“We both know that’s not the kind of business I want to be part of, Brienne. I want to build something. On my own.”

“How. . .how did you do it?”

“I thanked him for giving me the opportunity to find out for sure that it’s not the job I’m meant for. It’s him and Tyrion’s ball game. I’m off to my own court. He shook my hand and. . .wished me luck.” He sounds surprised, as if it’s just happened.  Then he suddenly clears his throat. “Uh, so, what do you think?”

“Well. . .I’m. . .you know I’ve always believed in you, Jaime. I know you struggled with the job because it’s not within your area of interest at all. I understand, I promise. But are you sure?”

“As sure as how awesome I feel whenever I’m fucking you.” He takes her hand and kisses it gently. She smiles shyly. “This is the right thing, Brienne. Leaving the company. Being my own man.”

“I know,” she assures him. “And I’m glad. I want to see you thrive elsewhere and now you really will.”

“So, you’re not angry?”

“Angry that my boyfriend stood up to his father like the strongest man I’ve always known him to be? Angry that now he gets to do something he believes in, calls the shots?”

He smiles and hugs her. “Thanks.”

She hugs him back. Secretly, she’s relieved that Jaime made the decision on his own, instead of any prompting from her. He was brilliant but wasted in Casterly Global.

“I’m happy for you,” she says honestly, pulling reluctantly away to look at him. Her sapphire eyes shine. “That’s so wonderful, Jaime.”

“I wouldn’t have done it without you in my life. Which leads me to this question. . .”

“Yeah?”

“How happy are you with Casterly Global? You want to work with me?”

She stares at him incredulously. “Work with you? Not for you?”

“Yeah. I thought to call it LT Communications. Lannister Tarth Communications,” he adds quickly. “I know what to do, wench, but I need help. Your help. What do you say?”

She’s floored, to be truthful about it. She’s wanted nothing but for Jaime to find the work satisfaction that has eluded him from the start. She never thought he would want her to be with him during the birthing pains of his new company.

“We’ll be partners,” he continues. “I know I’m springing this on you, Brienne, and you can take all the time you need to make your decision. I want you as my vice-president. I want you with me every step of the way to make this happen. You’re the only one who’s ever believed in me.”

“Vice-president?”

“President, if you want.”

“No, of course not.”

“I do mean it, you know.”

She suddenly laughs and kisses him deeply on the lips. Of course, he does. Jaime never lies to her. As he looks at her hopefully, she makes a big show of pretending to think hard about his over.

“Hmm. I have to put some things into consideration first, Mr. Lannister. Such as relationships outside of work?” She asks coyly.

His eyes gleam but he plays along. “No restrictions. I intend to fuck my vice-president not just at home but also in the office. I’ll have the finest craftsmen make the biggest, sturdiest desk where I intend to fuck her brains out before work hours, during lunchbreak, and when doing overtime. I’ll fuck her in the elevator too, the parking lot. There is no place I will not fuck her. I live to fuck her. If I may add, I make the best decisions after fucking her.”

She laughs. “You’re crazy.”

“There will be uniforms, though,” he murmurs, grabbing her ass under the blanket and squeezing it.

“What uniforms?”

“Just for you, wench. Skirts only. At least three inches above your sexy knees. Underwear will be strictly forbidden.” She opens her mouth to protest and he hushes her with a kiss. “Insistence on the garment will result in prompt termination. You can wear stockings if you want. And on Casual Fridays, you can wear only stockings.”

“Mr. Lannister,” she breathes as he kisses her again. “How—How will you know if I’m violating this most unforgivable company policy?” She moans as he settles on top of her and kicks her legs far apart.

“Daily strip searches, of course. You can’t wear a bra, either.”

“You should be arrested.” She manages to gasp just before he starts sucking her tongue. Squirming under him, she reaches between their bodies for his cock. Jaime grunts against her mouth as he starts fucking her.

“Wench, if your cunt is the prison following my arrest, then throw the fucking key away. _Damn._ You’re the hottest, tightest thing. And I’m fucking you. _So fucking good._ ”

He smirks at the light in her eyes, telling him that her mind is already cooking up their next wicked game. She’s already wondering how to give their own spin on the intern-boss scenario when he kisses her gently, softly. He looks at her with love, she gazes back at him. This is no game.

She takes him in his arms, overwhelmed by how complete she feels when he’s inside her like this.

There is nothing truer.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Catherineflowers and I thank you for reading! 
> 
> I'd like to take this opportunity to thank her for asking me to write this with her. This story IS ALL HERS. 
> 
> I'll keep it saying it though she insists it's ours. Her idea, guys, and I was just the happy, filthy cat more than willing to ride along!


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